In my mind, he was one of those handsome young guys who create a start-up company and make millions right away. Either that, or an aspiring actor. He was handsome, funny and, better than all that, he actually wanted to talk to me.
I’m most of the way back to the car when I spot a young man struggling to do up a pair of cufflinks as he hurries in the opposite direction. He’s wearing the same black trousers and maroon staff waistcoat as the other men at the hotel. We’re almost past each other when our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition. He’s someone I’ve met before and I can see that he knows me, too. He has freckles and short red hair but is otherwise unremarkable.
I reach out a hand towards him and say hello.
He stops and turns until we’re facing each other.
‘I know you, don’t I…?’ I say.
His gaze darts away towards the hotel as he mutters a brisk, ‘Don’t think so.’
He takes half a step but I reach out and catch his arm. I don’t grip tight, just enough to stop him. His name badge reads ‘Gavin’.
‘I was here on Monday night,’ I say. ‘I was in the bar. You were here, too.’
He shrugs. ‘I work here.’
‘Right… but you do recognise me, don’t you?’
A smirk drifts momentarily across Gavin’s lips before he conceals it by scratching his nose. ‘I served you drinks,’ he says. ‘I’m running late. Sorry. I’ve got to go.’
I stop him once more. ‘Sorry, I’m not a nutter… I mean, I know a nutter would say that, but I’m honestly not. I’m trying to remember someone I was with on Monday. We were both in the bar together. Can you help me?’
‘Who?’
‘His name was Stephen. He had dark hair, stubble, about six foot and a bit.’
Gavin nods dismissively but I’ve dealt with young people who don’t tell the entire truth way too often to miss the nose scratch.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ he says.
‘Please. It’s really important. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’
He bounces from one foot to the other; me on one side, the hotel on the other. ‘Ah, forget it,’ he says, angling towards me. ‘I’m late anyway. Another ten minutes won’t matter.’
Gavin digs into an inside pocket and pulls out a pre-made roll-up with a lighter. ‘You smoke?’ he asks.
‘No.’
He doesn’t add anything as he sticks the cigarette in his mouth and lights it before nodding towards a hedge. ‘I’m going to have to hide behind there,’ he says. ‘I’m on a second warning for smoking on company property. You coming?’
I follow him past my car and around a corner until we’re tucked into a hidden alcove where one hedge meets another. The area must be permanently in shadow because the ground is damp. There’s also a telltale collection of cigarette ends dumped in the mud.
‘What do you wanna know?’ Gavin asks.
‘I suppose what you remember.’
‘About you?’
‘I guess.’
He inhales from the cigarette and puffs out a plume that spirals high over the hedge. ‘You were in by yourself,’ he says. ‘I was on night shift in the bar and Jimbo had called in sick so I was by myself. At first I figured you were one of those career types who spend the evening getting steadily plastered. Anyway, you were a drink or two in when this bloke sidled up and sat next to you.’
‘Stephen?’
‘I guess so. You were getting on like a house on fire. Went off to the window for dinner, then came back to the bar. You were so pissed. I served you three wines and you were gone. I thought you must have spent the afternoon on the lash.’
‘I hadn’t had anything to drink before I got to the hotel.’
‘Well you were pretty much off your head – and I only served you three glasses.’
He clearly doesn’t believe me and gives a suit yourself shrug. I’d bet he sees this type of thing regularly: people in suits and business wear away from home and the office getting lashed on expenses.
‘Alcohol hits me hard,’ I reply.
It’s not exactly a lie – but it normally takes more than three glasses of wine to get me going. I don’t want to interrupt his flow by arguing over how much I drank. He seems clear enough I only had three.
He snorts. ‘You’re not wrong on that.’
‘What else happened after we came back to the bar after eating?’
That smirk returns for another brief appearance before he catches himself. ‘Not much.’
‘But something did…?’
Gavin is smoking quickly and has almost got through his rollie. He switches it from his right hand to his left, gulping down the smoke and breathing it out again.
‘You went to the toilet,’ he says.
I have no memory of that but I tell him I remember anyway.
‘I had a chat with your bloke,’ Gavin adds.
‘What about?’
Another puff and the cigarette has gone. He drops it to the ground and mashes it in with the others. ‘Well, no offence, but I asked him what the deal was. He was, like, twenty-odd. Some gym guy. A model type. And you… well…’
He tails off but the point is savagely clear.
‘You can say it,’ I reply.
‘Right, well, I ask him why some fit young guy would be chatting up an older woman. I thought he might have a type, y’know? Like some dudes are into black chicks, or Indian girls. Some blokes like ’em young, or whatever. I asked if he went for the MILFy-types.’
‘I’m a MILFy-type?’
He shrugs. ‘Not my type, but, y’know, some guys are up for anything. I have a mate who’s into furries. You know what that is?’
‘I honestly don’t want to know.’
Gavin bats a hand. ‘Anyway, I asked him what the deal was and he smiled and said, “What do you think?”.’
I stare at him, confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
Gavin sighs and then rubs his thumb across his forefinger and middle finger. The universal sign for money. Like some dodgy market trader trying to get something cash-in-hand.
‘I still don’t understand.’
Gavin steps around me and moves towards the car park. ‘I dunno what to tell you. That’s what he told me.’
It takes a second for the penny to drop. ‘He told you he was talking to me for money?’
Gavin rocks back and laughs. ‘Aye, talking for money. That’s a new one. I thought you might be some rich divorcee who got a big settlement. Flashing the cash and gash. All that.’
He’s already another step away when I tell him I don’t have any money.
He looks back over his shoulder and laughs. ‘Whatever. I’ve gotta get to work. Have a good day, an’ that.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I’m on the way home thinking over the conversation with Gavin by the secret smoking corner. None of it makes sense. Stephen was paid to talk to me? It makes no sense.
Gavin’s snidey giggle about talking for money is true. Who pays someone to talk to them at a bar for an hour or two?
I’ve only gone a couple of miles when I pull into a layby and turn the engine off. My brain is hurting from trying to force the memories. It would explain why Stephen chose to speak to me instead of the smattering of other people in the bar. It now fits why I found him so charming and why he seemingly thought the same of me. I wondered those same things at the time, suspecting that perhaps he had a thing for older women.
In all honesty, I didn’t care. He was young, handsome, intelligent and charismatic. I’ve not had anyone like that pay attention to me in a long time. I’m not sure about ‘MILFy’ but there was a big part of me that hoped he did have a thing for older women. It was exciting, making me feel important and wanted.
I now remember a really clear thought from the time. We were sitting at the table by the window, looking out over towards what I know now is a chapel. We were trying to figure out what it was, speculating that it might be an elaborate shed for a demanding gardener. It doesn’
t sound like much now but, at the time, it was hilarious. I turned to him and took in this beautiful man and thought, why should all the skinny gym girls have all the fun?
It crossed my mind that I would be cheating on Dan. I’ve never been with another man since marrying him, despite the way we’ve argued in recent years. We had already agreed to separate and I wondered if this counted as adultery. I was still wearing my wedding ring, yet Stephen either didn’t pick up on it, or didn’t care.
My relationship with Dan in recent times has very much been something like don’t ask, don’t tell. He’s had weekends away at teaching conferences, nights away for courses. More recently, he’s been at the gym a lot; or he’s said he’s at the gym a lot. I’ve considered that he might be doing his own thing with another woman – or women – but I’ve never asked because I didn’t particularly want to know. Without the truth, the illusion of our marriage could continue for Olivia; with it, everything might come tumbling down.
I thought about all of that in the moment by the window with Stephen – and I decided that if he wanted me, then I wanted him.
But I don’t remember much after moving from the table back to the bar with him. It’s only vague flashes after that. After waking up in my car, I assumed I’d been drinking – but Gavin says I only had three glasses of wine. That sounds about right. Two or three is my limit nowadays, especially when I’m out.
There is a blurry flash of the lifts, that jackpot machine dinging which I found hilarious for no reason. I was leaning on Stephen as I giggled myself stupid and then… we were in my room. Another smoggy memory of him lowering me onto the bed. He was telling me I was fine. The sheets were tucked hard and he lowered me down. I leaned in, kissing him on the neck, feeling that prickle of stubble against my lips. He said something like ‘that’s nice’ and then… I was in the car in that field.
But none of it was real. Stephen was paid to be with me.
So who paid him? It wasn’t me.
And was he paid to sleep with me?
If he was, then I’m almost certain he didn’t. Perhaps it was because I was too drunk, perhaps he changed his mind. I’m sure I’d know if we’d done that and am about as convinced as I can be that we didn’t. It didn’t stop me wanting to. It didn’t stop me kissing his neck, or spending the night flirting.
* * *
Googling male escorts is an eye-opener. There is so much bare flesh on display that I could’ve accidentally clicked onto an advert for a butcher’s shop. I narrow things down to this area and find a couple of online agencies advertising ‘male company’. I never realised there was such demand for this sort of thing and it all looks so official. On most sites, there are price lists and a phone number to call. On the first site, there is a ‘companion’ page, with half-naked photos of twenty or so men. Their heads have all been cropped out but each man has a good dozen professional pictures.
It feels creepy but I’m not sure what else to do, other than scroll through the images. As people say: it’s hard work but somebody has to do it.
There’s nothing that seems familiar on the first two sites – but that’s hardly a surprise. I don’t hang around with many bronzed, muscled gym-goers.
It’s on the third site where I find myself staring at one of the photos. I’d clicked past it and have to go back, eyeing the spiky tattoo on the man’s upper arm. It’s the type of tribal markings that are sometimes on display at the beach or the pool. The sort of thing appropriated from Pacific Islanders without context or care.
This man is a little different from many of the others. He doesn’t have the thick chiselled muscles, nor the bloated upper body. He’s tall and lean, with definition but nothing over the top. His torso is waxed smooth in a couple of the photos and he’s wearing a suit in some others.
I return to the tattoo photo and stare. It seems familiar and yet I don’t remember seeing one like it up close before.
None of the companions have been given names, they’re anonymous bodies categorised under various search terms, such as hair colour and body type. There is a button at the bottom, which reads: ‘To book, click here’.
I do precisely that – and then I’m left open-mouthed at the result.
You have selected STEPHEN. To continue with your booking, call now
There is a phone number but no other contact details. My heart flutters as I hover a thumb over the button to call. Calling an escort agency isn’t the type of thing I’d ever thought I’d do. Should I? Stephen must know that I wasn’t the one who hired him and I can’t imagine he’ll tell me over the phone who paid him. Why would he?
I suppose there’s only one way I’m going to be able to talk to him properly…
As I press the button to make the call, I close my eyes and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice, before it’s answered.
It’s a woman’s voice, though it’s hard to judge the age. She sounds officious and organised.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Can I help?’
‘Oh… I was hoping to talk to Stephen. I might’ve got the wrong number.’
‘This is the right number. I take Stephen’s bookings for him. How can I assist you?’
She’s calm and it sounds as if she’s done this a lot. It dawns on me that she’ll be the person who takes all the bookings from the site – not only Stephen’s. She will get a cut of whatever they make and it’s probably her who organised the professional photos. As with the stun gun, I have no idea if this is legal. This is all a new world to me.
‘Oh…’ I’m stumbling still off guard from hearing a woman’s voice. ‘I was hoping to book a meeting with him. I, um… not a meeting. Sorry, wrong word.’
She sounds warm, as if she’s heard all this before. ‘It’s okay, my love. I know what you mean. When were you thinking?’
‘Today…?’
‘I’m afraid Stephen’s all booked up for today. I do have some lovely other options you might be interested in?’
‘No. I really wanted Stephen. When is he next free?’
There is a brief pause and I can hear my heart thundering through the silence.
‘Stephen has some time tomorrow,’ the voice says.
‘Okay, that’s good.’
‘Where would you like to meet?’
‘I’ve not really thought about it. Where do people normally meet?’
I’m stumbling over my words like a nervous child about to go on stage for a Christmas nativity.
The woman remains perfectly calm. ‘Some prefer a public place like a restaurant,’ she says. ‘It depends what you’re after. Sometimes it’s more private, like a hotel room.’
She lets that hang but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what is being implied.
‘A restaurant,’ I say. ‘I’m only looking for company, not for, erm…’
‘That’s absolutely fine, my love. Do you know which restaurant?’
The only one I know in this area is at the hotel – and I can hardly suggest there, not if either Peter is on reception or Gavin’s at the bar.
‘I don’t know the area well,’ I reply. ‘I’m here on business. Can you suggest somewhere?’
‘Of course. What type of food do you like?’
If I was being honest, I’d say chips from the chippy but that’s not the best of ideas. I tell her Italian instead because it’s neutral enough. ‘Somewhere quiet,’ I add.
The woman says she knows the perfect place and asks for a time. I ask if an afternoon is fine, assuming it won’t be, but it’s starting to sound like anything is doable.
We set the time for four o’clock at some place named Marco’s. She asks if I need directions but I say I have maps on my phone. I can barely remember the time when everything was atlases with curled corners tucked into a car door.
‘Are there any other requirements?’ she asks.
‘Like what?’
‘Any specific outfit you might want? Aftershave? We can accommodate many things…’
‘Just norm
al,’ I reply, not knowing what to say.
‘We can do normal.’
There’s an awkward pause because there’s only one thing left to discuss. It’s her who brings it up. ‘Have you seen the rates on our site?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long were you looking for?’
‘An hour… no, two.’ I take a breath. ‘How do I pay?’
‘You can pay with cash placed in an envelope at the start of the appointment, or via credit card. It will appear as something discreet on your statement.’
‘I’ll pay cash.’
I hear the faint tapping of a keyboard in the background but it doesn’t stop the woman’s flow. She sounds cheerier now. ‘We’re all booked in that case. Do you mind if I take your name?’
There’s a split second in which I panic. I’d somehow not realised that she hadn’t asked for my name until now. I’ve started to say ‘Rose’ when it occurs to me that I’ve already told Stephen my real name. There’s no point in making him suspicious.
‘Olivia,’ I say. The first name that popped into my head.
I feel terrible straight away, even more so when the woman repeats it back to me.
‘In that case,’ she adds, ‘Stephen will see you tomorrow.’
I hang up and then finally open my eyes. The brightness of the sky burns green and pink stars into my eyes. I can’t afford five hundred pounds but I’m going to have to find it somehow.
The bar at the top of my phone is blinking red. My first mobile phone had a battery that would probably still have charge all these years on if I’d not chucked it out. Luckily, there’s a cable in my glovebox precisely for scenarios such as this. It was a birthday present, which sums up how much Dan and I have enjoyed our recent celebrations.
I unclip my seat belt and stretch across the gearstick, fumbling in the glovebox until I reach…
Something that isn’t a charging cable. Something far more ominous.
It’s a chain with a rectangle piece of silver attached to a clasp. The letters TY are engraved on one side; OD on the other.
Last Night Page 23
